I Dream a Dream
by G. Novella
Summary: Harry, Hermione and Ron perform ancient magic of fairy-tales and dreams, blood magic of all things, sending back memories to Ronald Weasley in the form of dreams in the hopes of changing everything. And Ron dreams and dreams of the past, of the future, and of a life that will no longer exist as the world begins to turn on itself, as the universe rewrites everything.
1. Chapter One: You've Got Time

_**Chapter One: You've Got Time** _

_Think of all the roads_

 _Think of all their crossings_

 _Taking steps is easy_

 _Standing still is hard_

 _Remember all their faces_

 _Remember all their voices_

 _Everything is different_

 _The second time around_

 _(Regina Spektor, You've Got Time)_

It's lonely in Grimmauld Place.

The realization hits Harry the morning of the third week after the Battle of Hogwarts. He doesn't know why he chose to return to Grimmauld Place, of all the homes he could have gone to. There weren't many options, all said and done. The places he'd have chosen to return to are gone now, lost in the fires of war. The Burrow isn't secure; it was ransacked by Death Eaters shortly after Christmas. Shell Cottage is available, but far too small and Luna and Dean have already retreated there because Fleur and Bill would never send the two away, not when they have no idea where their family is anymore. Hogwarts was open, but Hogwarts, Harry realizes dimly, is not the same castle it was when he was in school. It may never be the same castle again. He doesn't know how to approach this thought without crumbling. He's been trying to avoid crumbling for far too long, really.

Ron and Hermione came with him. Ginny had looked at them, so fleetingly and hesitant but ultimately, there was Fred's body to bury, and a mother that needed her more. Harry doesn't know how to apologize to the Weasleys. He doesn't know where to begin. He doesn't get the chance either, because Fred is buried only two days after the Battle, at a plot beside Mrs. Weasley's brothers and none of the Weasleys will hear a word from him. Still, even now, there is the lingering despite the funeral's finish only hours ago. Ron's grief is palpable in the air. Hermione hasn't been speaking much, but her eyes dart up the stairs every few hours, and she disappears into Ron's room to check on him. He should be with his family, but Harry doesn't say anything about it. Aunt Muriel, after all, is the one keeping the Weasley's until their home is safe again.

Secure.

It's not a real word. Not in this climate. Kingsley's invitation to join the Auror corps sits at the kitchen table, untouched. The letter's edges crinkle, the parchment curling into itself. There's no official ministry seal. It's merely a plea from one man turned hero to a boy hero turned man. Two years ago, Harry would have been delighted. Two months ago, this very future would have been the one he wanted. As it stands, in the realization of the losses, he can't find himself able to believe in this future. Nothing seems real about this. He can't stand here and count himself lucky to be alive as bodies are added to the count. As names of the missing cross over to names of the dead.

Lately he's taken to sitting in front of the Black family Tapestry, where Sirius' name was burned out, the crater lying in the branches of the twisted silver of the Black Family Tapestry. It's hauntingly beautiful. It's hauntingly empty. It strangely makes Harry feel closer to the man, as though Sirius would be here, alive, sitting in the crater of an empty tree. What would he think of Remus' son, Harry wonders? Of Andromeda's quiet shaking sobs as she buried her daughter and son-in-law, as she restarted life at a time when her life was supposed to be about growing old with the man she'd defied everything for. Sirius would have been angry, Harry thinks, but he doesn't know because like Snape, Harry barely knew Sirius. This is a realization that hit during the funerals, as epitaphs are read and everyone looks at him and forgets for a minute that someone died because they see a hero.

It's a bitter thought, how in three days, everything changed. Dumbledore is not a god, but a man. Severus Snape is not a villain, but a victim. Fred Weasley died. The War is Over. Harry Potter is not the Boy-Who-Lived or the Chosen One, but the Master of Death - a title the Prophet used in relation to the differing accounts of Harry's second dodging of the Avada Kedavra curse. He's a walking miracle. The thought makes his lip curl, though if he thinks about it too long, he may have to join the Longbottoms in the Janus Thickey Ward.

There's a clatter in the kitchen, startling Harry out of his thoughts.

Hermione is there, when he enters, staring at a broken cup as Kreacher cleans up around her, encouraging her to take a seat. She's thinner than she ever was, her cheeks hollow and her hair now trimmed to her shoulders. She'd done it in a fit, just yesterday morning. There were too many dead ends, she'd said. Singed strands. Flayed knots. It suits her in a manner, but it is bushier than it used to be and she looks tired. Her eyes are haunted and he doesn't dare ask about her dreams.

Nobody dreams anymore. They drown in their sleep. They burn. They don't dream. He doesn't know if they'll ever dream again.

"The count is at fifty," says Hermione quietly to him, offering her hand out - whether for him to take or her to hold, he doesn't know. He never knows anymore. Harry grips it, because he knows she still sees him dead, dying. Hagrid comes by every day, just to see Harry alive. Because he saw Harry die. He held Harry's corpse. Harry would mind, but it's Hagrid. And Harry has lost too many people to send Hagrid away. To lose him too. Harry's fingers wrap around Hermione's, and he's realizing her cheeks are tear-stained.

There's always another body. Another person dead. Three weeks and people are still dying. St. Mungo's is not equipped for the amount of injuries that came their way. They lost too many good Healers. Many are still wandless, as Olivander remains unable to fill the hands of those who lost their wands. Who were deemed unworthy to carry one. And as a result, there's always someone dying. Someone still feeling the effects. Someone buried in the avalanche of the quiet after that comes tumbling as the avalanche begins after the war stops. After Goliath hits the ground and it shakes, cracking the earth and creating a crater to swallow people into it's abyss. Until they become but a memory of things nobody knows anyting about.

"Who?" he croaks, because it's always someone. Sometimes Harry dreams of the rocks that landed on Fred. Except the rocks twist into faces. Into bodies. Tumbling from a Hogwarts wall and crushing him. Each holding him accountable for their grief. Sometimes he thinks about the stone, about going after it to apologize to them all personally.

"Lavender," said Hermione, quietly.

"Bloody hell."

They both turn to see Ron. It's one of the rare moments he's left his room and Harry can only think of how bloody likely it is that it coincides with Lavender Brown's death announcement. The girl had been hanging on, she'd been fighting the effects of Fenrir's works and of dark magic. Everyone had been so hopeful. And yet, here they are.

Hermione takes a deep breath, but she can't seem to hold herself together and suddenly her free hand reaches for Ron. For a minute, Ron seems to want to leave, probably to bury himself in his room and never come out. It's not that he loved Lavender. But Harry knows, in the way that he knows that if it were Cho, Harry's heart would still clench and he'd want to throw something.

But Ron steps. Shakily, like a fawn that's learning to walk, stumbling towards the end as his arm wraps around Hermione, and he buries his nose in her hair and his hand reaches into the tangle of fingers Harry and Hermione have made and they stand. They breathe. It's all they seem to be able to do anymore.

Breathe in.

Hermione's shaking again, and Harry thinks about Dean and Seamus and Neville, who managed to survive. Who will live to see another day. Six years is a long time. And whatever Lavender was, Harry feels it, in his heart, the sudden sadness of losing the brunette girl who sat by the Gryffindor Tower windows with a Witch Weekly magazine and instructed Parvati on how to wear bracelets with pale robes, who sidled next to Ron and called him Ron-Ron, and thought it was love. Of the girl who cried for a bunny rabbit and believed in Trelawney when nobody else did. Who longed for fairy tales and destiny and who didn't deserve this for her story at all.

Breathe out.

It's all that they can do, anymore.

* * *

Firewhiskey is never a good idea. In the night, in Grimmauld Place, as they raise their glass in a toast to everyone dead, with Hermione wrapped in Ron's arms and Harry sitting across them, staring at his best friends and feeling guilty as he says, "Colin Creevey" and thinks thank Merlin it wasn't Ron Weasley or Hermione Granger. He doesn't know if he'd have survived, if it was one of them. He doesn't know how he's surviving, not anymore. Not these days.

Breathing is all he can do.

"Bloody hell," says Ron, it's the most he's said at any of their drinking sessions, in the late night hours when they can pretend it's healthy and Hermione doesn't cringe. "It's really over."

Hermione hums, plucking at his robes. They're loose. But that's standard fare for them all, really. Loose robes and heavy hearts. There's nothing about this story that can be changed. It's done and over with and the losses were more than a pound of flesh.

"And now we get to have our happy ever after," says Hermione, sounding more bitter than giddy. "Lavender believed in ever afters. Happy ones. In our First Year she told me she was going to marry Prince William or Prince Harry and become a real live Princess, like Diana. Except she's dead too."

Ron, surprisingly, knows those names as Hermione gives a hysterical sort of laughter. His face twists into a grimace and Harry wonders if Lavender held onto that dream longer than just First Year. Or perhaps the Wizarding World knows these things. The Royal Family is the sort you know, Harry supposes, as he thinks of Lavender's plans to become a Princess. Of her fairy-tales.

He thinks of Colin Creevey in his coffin, surrounded by flowers as Dennis, all of fourteen, holds their father's hand and his brother's camera and looks at Harry with his brother's worshipping eyes, thanking him that the war is over and saying Colin was brave, in the end. A real Gryffindor. Dennis looks at him with his brother's eyes and thanks him that he can go back to school one day. His father is not nearly so thankful, as he stands stiffly to the side and looks at these wizards with accusation in his eyes. And yet, he turns the same worshipping eyes to Harry - it's probably a family trait, Harry thought absently at the time - and asks if Colin made the world a better place. If his death meant something.

Harry wishes he felt as sincere about Colin's death meaning something as he'd sworn to Mr. Creevey. The truth is that Colin died. And that he shouldn't have died like that. Colin should have grown old with grey hair and those worshipping eyes should have gotten crow's feet. His photographs should have become legend.

"I wish," says Ron, interrupting Hermione before she can talk about Princess Diana and Lavender's aspiration to become Grace Kelly as well, "I wish Trelawney had been a bit more bloody clear in her prophecy. Given us some more details. Harry has to kill horcruxes. Voldemort made seven. Check Hogwarts. Would have saved us a lot."

His sentence is swallowed. Time. Money. People. Ron barks a brittle laugh and swallows those words. He barks a laugh, the kind that itches in your throat and sounds wobbly. Like at any minute it could turn into a cry. Harry doesn't point it out. He knows that laugh all too well. It's the same laugh he's laughing right now, at words that are far too true.

Hermione's had a bit too much to drink, thinks Harry, as she starts to furrow her brow as though she's trying hard to think. Her eyes dart behind Harry, to the bookshelf. Ron doesn't seem to notice, as he looks at Harry with bloodshot blue eyes, and says with a strange sort of grate to his voice, one that's become fairly common in the Weasley's (Another thing Harry doesn't like to think of, really), "We should have probably paid more attention in Divination. Could have used the tea leaves to figure it all out. Had some prophetic dreams."

Hermione is still thinking, but Harry is laughing bitterly as he says, "Would have been better than the dreams I had instead." The Dreams of Voldemort, unclear and on the edges of his vision. The dreams that lead to Sirius' death. That did not prevent Remus' and Tonks' and Fred's deaths. Not dreams, Harry's beginning to realize, but nightmares.

The conversation drifts. Hermione falls asleep thinking. The next morning, Harry realizes, she fell asleep not thinking.

She fell asleep dreaming.

* * *

"I have an idea," Hermione says, two days after the funerals end. After the parade of bodies is done with. A month has passed and finally they are returning to normal. Harry is still fingering the Auror letter in front of the Black tapestry, thinking about the things he doesn't know. About the things he'll never know. About how normal is not something he'll ever know either.

Not like Hermione though, who has ideas and knows things. Who knew normal, once. Harry looks up anyways, studies his friend. There used to a be time when Harry Potter would have sent her away, would have grieved in quiet silence. That time is long gone. That Harry has never grieved with anyone beside him. That Harry has never held anyone in their grief either, and tried to apologize to people for deaths that he should have known to prevent. Time has changed them all, far too much.

Ron is behind Hermione, looking unsure. He's not heard this plan but Hermione has that glint in her eye. It's a glint that Harry hasn't seen in anyone but Kingsley lately, but Kingsley is forced to have that glint as he looks to a future where everyone grieves and tries to find something worth salvaging. Azkaban was opened that morning, as muggleborns were released for the first time in months. More bodies will be counted, as Dementors are driven off by hordes of wizards. But there is freedom, lurking in the shadows.

It's a mirage, but it's there.

"An idea?" asks Harry, raising an eyebrow at his friend but welcoming her to sit beside him. Ron takes the other side, looking at the tapestry absently.

"It's illegal," begins Hermione, and Ron snorts immediately, saying, "So's breaking into Gringott's."

The three of relax at that, because illegal has never stopped them before. Because illegal has only ever been a term used in context outside of them.

"We could fix this," whispers Hermione, and immediately the tension is back, the two boys staring at Hermione with identical owl-eyed expressions, their hearts hammering in a thrum that rises, because this is not the tapestry. This is something more.

"What the hell are you saying Hermione?" asks Harry, surprised at the animosity in his voice, but he's suddenly angry at her, for bringing this idea up so casually. For suggesting anything in this mess is fixable.

"I looked it up," says Hermione, her eyes frantic, crackling with a sort of intense glint that Harry was foolish to classify as hope. It's not hope. It's desperation.

"In the books Dumbledore left us. In books from the Grimmauld library," she continues, sensing that the boys are paying attention. "There's - It's completely Dark. And theoretical. But I think, if we reworked the spells. Maybe added a Potion component. And used Blood Magic, we could change everything."

"Hermione." It's Ron, looking at her now with concern, "The fuck are you thinking?"

It's not eloquent, but it's designed to drive a crack into her eyes. It doesn't. She gets bolder, as she says, "We send our memories back. Hell, not just us. It's completely theoretical, but one of the authors worked as an Unspeakable with Time. It's very dangerous, but if we get it right. We could fix everything. Finish the Horcruxes. Save Sirius. Remus. Fred. Cedric. Everyone. Maybe not the Potters. It depends on the conduit."

"Blood Magic and Dark Magic are what got us into this mess in the first place," Harry says angrily. He stands up to leave, but Hermione is suddenly gripping his shirt, holding him in place with trembling fingers as she says, "And it's what can get us out."

Harry feels his temper boiling over. He wants to shout, to scream, but the crater in the tapestry catches his eye. Rather than yelling at Hermione about messing with things beyond them, he's suddenly tired beyond belief. There's a strange lack of anything in his body, his bones feel heavy. He's _tired._ And then there's Hermione, and Ron, and they're both looking at him and he looks at the crater and thinks of Teddy Lupin who should have had Sirius as his godfather, not Harry. Who deserves more than just Andromeda to tell him about his parents. It's not like Harry knew Remus either. It's not like Harry will have the answers Teddy wants someday. Questions about favourite colours and how he proposed and what did Remus think about Quidditch. Harry doesn't know anything.

He didn't know anything at all.

"What are you thinking?" asks Harry, because it's all he can ask then, as he sags back into the seat.

"There's theoretical spells, time travel - not like time turners," says Hermione hesitantly, "Darker magic. The Blacks experimented with it. I'm sure more than one Dark Family has, but Porrima Black was an Unspeakable. She worked in the Time Department in the Department of Mysteries. They let her go when they realized she was trying to transport herself back into time - Muggle baiting, presumably. To help Salazar Slytherin in his quest to eradicate Muggleborns. Her theory, however, combined with some other texts, isn't impossible. It's dangerous -

"Not new for us," says Ron, his eyes hungry, looking at Hermione with a sharp glint that Harry wonders about. The glint, he suspects, is echoing in his own eyes at the thought.

"Yes," says Hermione, gathering herself up to give him a withering look at the interruption, "Not new for us. We'd need to do some more research. But, Porrima was trying to warn Salazar, send back memories of muggleborns going to school and his own departure from Hogwarts. She was hoping to guide the Founders. Your discussion the other night, about Trelawney. And Seers. Divination. It's all muggy, but. If we send back our own memories. If we bind us together. And one of us gets those memories."

She trails off, letting them think about it. Harry swallows, unable to visualize it.

"I'll do it," he says before either of them can. Hermione hesitates then.

"It can't be you," she says, apologetic, "You'd be linked to Voldemort. Imagine if he knew we knew."

Harry freezes. He can't imagine it because he has enough nightmares as it is. Because that's a road he doesn't want to travel across.

"Well you sure as hell can't do it," says Ron, looking at Hermione fiercely, before stopping himself, as he asks, shaky, "Do you want to do it?"

"I was thinking both of us," says Hermione, looking at Ron with a steely glower, daring him to challenge her. Harry doesn't like it. "But first we need to figure out if this will even work."

And just like that, the Auror letter is abandoned by the tapestry for an afternoon in the Library because of a strange, chaotic glint in their eyes.

* * *

It's not a thought Hermione had that day, but a dream. A silly fairy-tale fantasy that anyone else would have dismissed. But they have the Elder Wand, which is also a fairy-tale fantasy. They have a pensieve and a phoenix that offered them it's tears. They are made of dreams and fantasies and all sorts of strange things. They spend time pouring over the details. Obsessing about the right container for all these thoughts. They hit a snag, three weeks in, at the realization that Blood Magic requires a sacrifice. Harry nearly backs out when they don't let him volunteer. But he's the Master of the Elder Wand. It can't be him.

Ron volunteers. Of course he does. But three days after the discovery, Hermione stares at his scars and says, "You've had multiple minds hold you."

And just like that, his injury, once a reminder of Harry's messes becomes a solution, as Hermione goes off to the Unspeakable Department and looks into neuroscience and neuromagic and Ron is furious with her because she's the sacrifice now. Ginny knows he's planning something, that he's doing something, they're doing something. She doesn't ask, but she looks at him and Harry wonders if she'd agree. He thinks she'd never forgive them. He doesn't ask her to, because Ron has finally agreed, because at this stage they'll all die trying to fix this mess. It's not one sacrifice, it's three.

The theory had worked out brilliantly. They'd looked into all sorts of magic. They'd collected memories. They'd worked together. And then they'd reached this point, with Hermione working on the last bit of the potion. It's a three part ritual. Three months since everything has happened. Since the idea began.

Grimmauld Place is still lonely. But there's something new about them now. There's something about the shadows. They've dimmed.

Hermione studies Ron and Harry, cautiously. Ron looks nervous, of course he's nervous. Harry would be too, if it were him. As it is, the potion in front of them swirls.

"We'll need to add the memories now," Hermione says, nodding to the pensieve.

They've collected memories from all sorts of people. On the pretext of Hermione writing an account about the War. They've taken memories from Neville. Luna. Ginny. From Professor McGonagall. From Snape. From Dumbledore's portrait. From themselves. From people all over who trusted them. A small bit of guilt wells up inside Harry, as he thinks about how spectacularly wrong this could go. About how many confidences they're breaking. It's squashed at the memories of Teddy, that he draws from the pensieve and delivers into the potion, that slowly grows more and more silver, taking on the colour of memory.

Ron looks at them both, as he starts lighting candles, uncertain. This is the biggest risk to him, after all. Survival is the least of their concerns, at this point. The Wizarding World would never forgive them this. They're crazy, thinks Harry somedays. But they're brewing in front of the Black Family Tapestry and it stares at him, and Sirius is a blank spot in the tree and he knows nothing.

Knowledge is power. Dreams are power. Albus Dumbledore once told him it doesn't do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. But perhaps Albus Dumbledore had forgotten the power of dreams. Of hope. Of chaotic little glints in the corner of your eye. Of the burning passion that could be brought. Of the idea of living for dreams. There are many things, now, that Harry thinks Albus Dumbledore was wrong about.

The cauldron spurts. The first part of the ritual. Unicorn hairs. Phoenix tears. Dittany. Moly. A Centaur's Hair. Willingly given, ingredients of the light. It had been Harry's idea, to stray from dark magic. From Porrima's original recipe. Hermione of course, was the one who delved into the books of Severus Snape for this idea.

And finally, drops of their own blood.

"This is it," says Hermione, and she looks at Ron, eyes sharp, glinting manically but tear free. A similar look to them all. "You can say no."

"No," says Ron, "I can't."

Hermione nods, and then she freezes up, as she asks, "What if it doesn't work?"

"You're the most brilliant witch of your age," says Ron, and Harry looks away. He can hear them kissing, but he doesn't know what they've said. Ron looks at him then, a hand on his shoulder, and then suddenly they're hugging. It wasn't ideal. If it was Harry, he'd have taken the memories himself. Taken the burden.

As it stands, it's not up to them anymore. They're going to change everything.

Ron strips off his shirt, as Hermione spoons the potion of memories and blood and light into a large bowl, flat and wide and cupped so that Ron can drink. There is fear tinged in his eyes. And there is that chaotic glint of hope and madness.

They shouldn't do this.

Harry watches, as Ron drinks and drinks and then the bowl is empty. Not a drop left, as Ron's eyes go wide, and his scars on his arm turn silver. The brains of many, wrapped around him. Holding him up. He's done this once. Been addled by many minds. He's a natural conduit to hold these many memories. He's done it once before. He's lived. Harry wants to reach out and clasp his arm but it's too late for that now. Ron is unfocused as Hermione takes the next step.

Harry looks at her, as she whispers a soft "I love you. I love you both so much."

If this doesn't work -

He can't afford to think that now. They'd taken this step. They were doing this.

Hermione takes a knife, silver and arcane and swooping. Her blood falls. Harry holds the Elder Wand as he begins the spell.

Her blood turns silver. Ron's scars shine. Harry's scar shines. He's chanting and chanting and suddenly there's a white light and King's Cross Station is upon him again, swarming and pushing and the universe itself collapses and he's still chanting as his best friends vanish into the light. As a chaotic light, bright and hopeful and swooping erases.

As everything disappears but Ron, still silver and bound and breathing.

Nothing will ever be the same again.

* * *

 _There's a baby sitting in a woman's lap. Her red hair falls around her, as a wizard makes little bright lights appear before the boy, dancing around his head. The baby's father adjusts his glasses, laughing as the baby claps his pudgy fingers around a bright silver shard, cupping it in his palms with childish wonder. He claps and squeals and the woman laughs, as she says, "James, he's never going to sleep if you keep doing that."_

 _James laughs, his dark hair messy and tousled as he looks up at his wife with adoration, plucking the baby from her arms and taking the boy upstairs. The woman follows, standing at the door as she watches the way the man recites a story about a dog, a stag, a rat and a wolf running in the from the silver gleam of moonlight, dancing in the dark shadows. The woman with brilliant green eyes and red hair looks at the scene fondly, as the baby, still cupping the silver shard of light finds his eyes shutting._

 _James' is grinning as he says, "Do you doubt a Marauder bedtime story, my darling Lily flower?"_

 _They never do get to the bedtime story, in the end._

 _The door blasts open._

 _The baby starts._

 _The silver shard of light slips from the baby's fingers, dancing on the edge of the scene._

 _James Potter stands straight, shouting back as footsteps thud up the stairs._

 _"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off -"._

 _Lily runs up the stairs, to the bedroom. The child giggles at the flash of green light flooding into the room, thinking his father is still playing the game. The woman gasps and comes to the crib, stumbling before it in agony despite her own lack of wounds. There are tears in both identical sets of eyes, as a hooded figure enters the room. The baby is dropped into the crib. It doesn't understand this cloaked figure is a threat, as it tries to hold itself aloft, to watch the proceedings with curious green eyes._

 _"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"_

 _"Stand aside, you silly girl...stand aside, now..."_

 _"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead -"_

 _And so he does. In one fell swoop, Lily Potter lays dead and then -_

Ron Weasley wakes up gasping into the night. His arms gleam a subtle silver, burning as he wordlessly gasps into the orange room. And the universe shifts around him, rearranging itself as time begins anew.

* * *

 **WHAT.**

 **A STORY.**

 **BY ME.**

 **SHOCKER.**

 **I know. Forreals though. It's been AGES since I've written a thing for the HP fandom and I can't believe I'm taking a crack at it again - But you couldn't keep me awayyyy. But forreals. A new story? What about the old?**

 **The sad truth of the matter is that I'm probably not going to finish them or continue the sequels. I was 14 when I wrote them. Five years ago. I'm bordering twenty now. I'm just not the same person I was. I've changed so much as a writer. The ideas I had then, the writer I was then. I'm not that writer anymore. And it breaks my heart to say that, but I can't finish those stories the way they deserve. I just don't have the feel for them anymore, it's been far too long. I took a long break from this fandom, did some self-discovery and came back. New. Fresh. With a new vision for what I want to write and I know I'll grow again as a writer as I start this story. The only story I'm starting, mind you. My other stories are left where they are and shall be for the foreseeable future.**

 **As for where this story will go. It will go to completion O_O WITH AN ACTUAL PLAN FOR HOW THAT HAPPENS. WHAT. Growth. It's a thing.**

 **It's already planned for a few chapters. Updates may be sporadic (Hello university life, right?) but updates will happen. It's a loooooooong ride. Buckle up.**

 **I fidgeted about the rating for this one to be honest. It has some violent scenes TO COME. Not so much sex things. Though I have tried writing sex things. And can write sex things. In tidbits about self-discovery and why I can't write things I wrote at 14 anymore. Pairings are undecided but mostly canon final ships or whatever. I may not do Remus/Tonks though For those of you who care about that thing. I like the pair but it's not my favourite anymore and honestly, I sort of dislike the way Tonks got lost into that plot and disappeared to have a baby. There are better plans for her. She'll be in this story. Just maybe not with Remus. The rest should mostly stay the same.**

 **(Also yes, the opening quote is from Orange is the New Black - for those that recognize).**


	2. Chapter Two: What if You Slept?

_**Chapter Two: What if You Slept?**_

 _What if you slept_  
 _And what if_  
 _In your sleep_  
 _You dreamed_  
 _And what if_  
 _In your dream_  
 _You went to heaven_  
 _And there plucked a strange and beautiful flower_  
 _And what if_  
 _When you awoke_  
 _You had that flower in you hand_

 _Ah, what then?_

 _(Samuel Taylor Coleridge, What if You Slept?)_

Ron couldn't breathe as he lurched awake from his nightmare. Instead, for a strong moment, he saw the green light headed towards him. He felt it in his bones, the thud of it's impact. Ron stared into the empty corners of his room. He didn't understand the dream that he just had, but he sat up now, his knees were brought to his chest and there was a heaviness in his heart. He didn't know the lady who died. Didn't really recognize her, though there was a niggling sense of familiarity. The baby, though, he's fairly sure was Harry, and the man. The man had looked so familiar. Ron Weasley turned in his bed, blue eyes still wet, and stared at Harry, tucked in his cot that mum dragged up earlier that day, when she'd realized they had a new guest.

They'd just rescued Harry yesterday from the Dursleys'. Ron still couldn't believe the muggles put bars on his friend's window. That they had treated him like some sort of prisoner, bound to a cage. He'd half expected shackles, or maybe chains, or something more gruesome like the stories Fred and George used to recite about Azkaban. Vernon Dursley's red, bulging face appeared in his mind's eye at that train of thought. He can still see Vernon Dursley as he shouted and grabbed at Harry's foot, threatening as the Weasley's brother's tugged at Harry from the other side, scrambling to get him out of the Dursley's clutches. Ron had never heard of muggles doing such things before then. His father always described muggles as good people, frighteningly clever and very interesting. Arthur Weasley thought of muggles as extraordinarily clever and talented with all their inventions. Ron really doesn't know much about muggles, in comparison, but he remembered meeting Harry last year at Hogwarts and how his friend understood how embarrassing hand-me-down robes could be. Ron's arms are still curled around his knees, he's unaware of the silver receding from his arms as he stared at Harry's sleeping form, thinking of that first meeting for the first time since it had occurred.

 _"So that's where You-Know-Who-_

 _"Yes," said Harry, "but I can't remember it."_

 _"Nothing?" said Ron eagerly._

 _"Well - I remember a lot of green light, but nothing else."_

Ron swallowed again, because suddenly his mind is clicking in ways he never expected it to click. A lot of green light. Lily and James. A woman with brilliant green eyes standing in front of a baby's crib and then. Then she was dead. Ron took another choked breath, muffling himself into his pillow as he lay back and stared at his ceiling.

When he was younger, Fred and George had tried to stick Ron's bed to the ceiling as a joke. They'd tried that while Ron was still sleeping in the bed. Mum had been furious, of course, why wouldn't she be? Still though, there's lumps in the ceiling where the glue George had been pasting onto the walls remains. Ron reckoned if he stood on his bed now, he could touch it. He's never tried.

It's the oddest thought to have after that dream, but it's soothing. He shut his eyes and tried not to think about it.

Sleep doesn't arrive, despite his wish that it would. Ron's brain is too wired, too caught up in the memory of it all. Of James Potter playing with his kid, unaware of what was to come. He had tried to give them time to run. He hadn't even been holding a wand. Ron could now see it all too clearly, the way James Potter had left his wand on the couch because he'd never expected it. Never thought his home could be unsafe. He can still hear You-Know-Who's high-pitched laughter, the way he says the curse, the resounding thud as James Potter falls, trying to defend his family with all that he had. Ron struggles to breathe again.

Scabbers woke up from all his shuffling. The grey rat snuffled into the air, and then comes beside Ron, shuffling on his chest. The thick fur, the lack of a toe, all of it was familiar again, soothing. He's a good rat. It's nice to have the pet with him, right now, facing this disaster of a dream. Ron absently stroked the animal's fur, finding it calming right then. Still, he couldn't fall back asleep. Harry's softly snoring away beside him and Ron turned to his friend, studying the scar in the pale glint of the moonlight.

Before today he'd never thought about the scar much. Not beyond what anyone else thinks. Harry was just so ordinary, on the train. Just like a normal bloke who played chess and liked Chocolate Frogs and wore hand-me down clothes from his much bigger - though not much older - cousin. Harry was just an ordinary boy with a a magical scar that reminds everyone of how he survived the impossible. And really, it wasn't that big a deal, because usually, otherwise, he was a normal kid. But then he'd survived it again, staring down You-Know-Who for a second time at Hogwarts, of all places. Still, it was too late to think of Harry as anything but ordinary at this point. He'd seen the kid scrambling to write a Potions essay at midnight, after all, and struggling to remember who Bogrod the Bold was.

Except now, now Ron knows. He knows far too many details and his blue eyes still felt suspiciously wet, as he studied his sleeping friend. Harry must have sensed he's being watched, because he turned in his sleep, pulling the blanket over him like a second shield and Ron looks away, embarrassed, and a tad worried because what if Harry does know he's being watched? Mates don't watch mates sleep. Well, mates don't dream of their mates' parents dying. Neither is a good thing. Neither is explainable, really.

Now staring at the walls, Ron thought about You-Know-Who, this faceless entity that wasn't even human in the dream he'd had. Didn't feel human, at least, not even in his dream. He was a monster that's supposed to be long dead, but Ron knew better now after this year. Still, the monster was supposed to be almost dead. Ron wondered if Harry knows that so few people manage to survive that, regardless of You-Know-Who's state. Quirrell certainly didn't survive it. Ron's own parents never saw You-Know-Who at all, though his father sometimes would mention being pulled out to fight Death Eaters with the Ministry, if the topic came up, during the old days, when the war was raging. Bill sometimes talked about those memories, about their uncles who died and brought five Death Eaters down with them. About not being able to play outside after dark, or without someone watching. They'd had a magical fence, to keep them penned right near the kitchen window, so that mum could always watch them. And then a baby stopped everything and life went on. Everybody was happier for it.

It's the first time Ron has ever considered the Potters' in this equation of life, death, and You-Know-Who. Was that really how it happened? Was that really how the Potters' died? Lily Potter had a choice. She'd chosen her son. James had no wand and he'd still thought to fight. Tried his best for his family.

Ron felt humbled as he stayed awake, thinking of the strange dream and all the things it could and couldn't mean.

* * *

Ron was still awake in the morning, which is unusual considering he barely got a chance to sleep the previous day. He feels overtired now, and ridiculously grumpy. Still, he can't sleep. His brain is wired with images of green light and he's so very relieved that he never took to supporting the Caerphilly Catapults. Imagining his room overtaken by any colour other than the soothing orange of the Chudley Cannons is nauseating, especially a colour like green. Scabbers fell back asleep sometime during the night. Stupid rat. All fondness is gone after it's betrayal for leaving Ron to fend the night terrors on his own.

Breakfast can't come soon enough in the Weasley house. And indeed, the house begins to stir to life in spurts. It starts with the ghoul, clanging around at the first signs of dawn. Harry woke up to this noise with a start, staring up at the ceiling with wide green eyes, and then questioningly into Ron's bed where the little wizard is still awake, with blood shot eyes and dark circles rather than a well-rested visage.

It was probably a surprise, after all, since they'd had very little rest yesterday. Mum had sent the boys into the garden for the stunt with the car. But they'd had no choice, reckoned Ron, even now he stood by what they'd done, regardless of the punishment. He doesn't regret stealing away into the middle of the night with his dad's car to save Harry from the muggles. He regretted not going sooner. Harry though, Harry doesn't hold it against them. He seems delighted just to be at the Burrow, as evidenced with him coming out yesterday to watch them degnome the garden, of all things. Ron really doesn't understand why Harry loves the Burrow, but he doesn't begrudge him that love. There are so few places like Ron Weasley's home, and he loves it more than he's loved any house at all. There's no finer place in the world than his home, even if it's sometimes too small and if he doesn't get his own room during the holidays.

"S'just the ghoul," Ron said to his friend, as he flipped through the old copy of Martin Miggs the Mad Muggle. He'd grabbed it sometime in the night when he'd realized he wasn't going to sleep anymore. Not after that dream. "He'll quiet down on his own."

"Morning," replied Harry quietly, green eyes wide in fascination. Ron's stomach lurched at the sight of those green eyes, the same eyes the woman in his dream had. The same shape, the same colour. It's odd, realizing how truthful that statement - Just like his father, but with his mother's eyes - is. The statement most everyone usually makes when they meet Harry. It's the most honest thing they could ever say. The dream seems strangely too real in that moment and Ron broke his gaze from his friend, his blue eyes darted back to his comic with a mumbled "Morning."

Harry's quiet as he sat up in the bed and stared around Ron's room curiously. And then he met Ron's gaze again.

"You didn't sleep?" asked Harry, standing up and then beginning to make the bed. Ron gave a shrug in response, and then hesitated, as Harry kept looking at him with wide, questioning eyes.

"I had a really weird dream," said Ron finally, his voice pitching a bit too high at the end there. Harry stopped folding the quilts to stare at Ron. He looked around, and then back at his friend, encouraging him silently to continue his explanation. Ron paused, trying to summon up the courage, but then he heard footsteps downstairs, as his mother finally stirred to begin making breakfast. Harry paused as well. Everything went extremely still.

"Weird how?" asked Harry, hesitantly as the sounds of the kitchen start up, a cacophonous symphony of water pouring into kettles, of eggs cracking, of pans reshuffling and the oven itself roaring into life. Ron was still nervous, as he stepped out of the bed, and checked the door to his bedroom, making sure the twins or heaven forbid, Percy, aren't near by. They'd think he was cracked if they had any idea.

But he can't really lie to Harry. Not about this. It's too obvious that he's shaken up. He could maybe have talked himself out of this situation with anyone else, but not Harry. Harry is far too observant for his own good. He knows all sorts of things, sees all sorts of things, and has this uncanny knack for reading people. All people. It's sort of cool, the way Harry just gets how people feel or what they're thinking. Ron's never been any good at it. Nor is he any good at hiding his thoughts and feelings. And this is not about him, this dream. It's not his to keep.

So Ron turned to Harry, and quietly announced, below the din of the Burrow waking up, "I think- I think I saw your parents die."

And just like that, the room went very very still again. Harry turned pale, his skin lost all signs of colour and his jaw flopped open with stunned shock. Really, he mimicked the way Ron felt just seconds ago. Harry stared at Ron, wobbling on his knobby little knees, before he settled on the bed, swallowed in his big grey shirt that's really three sizes - maybe more - too big for him. He looked impossibly small and his eyes impossibly large in that moment. His scar seemed so much starker against his skin, as he stared at Ron and suddenly the Weasley boy shuffled, realizing that maybe, perhaps, that wasn't the best method to deliver that story. To explain it. He didn't mean for it to come out that way.

And yet, it's out there now. Scabbers is surprisingly awake again, snuffling around the room. Probably heard the kitchen starting up. Food is the last thing that was on Ron's mind right then, though. Harry was looking at him, demanding an explanation. So Ron settles onto the cot beside Harry and swallowed, his own freckles darting out along his skin. The story is not one he intends to repeat.

* * *

Harry Potter is not your ordinary child. Being a Wizard is unusual enough, he reckons, by most people's estimate. Or at least, most people on Privet's drive estimate, and not just those in the house he stays at. Having parents who were magical is strange too. Again, he's going by most people's estimate and not the Wizarding World's estimate. According to the Wizarding World, it's quite normal. It's normal too, to have parents who aren't wizards and have magic. In fact, one of his best friends doesn't even have magical parents, though this is not the case for young Harry, though it was the case for his mother. These are not normal things, by the majority of the world's thinking, but it is normal, for the world that Harry was born to but didn't always know.

But then the Wizarding World had taken things a step further, and made him weirder than even the weirder parts of the underbelly of the world's largest secret society. Because even among ordinary Witches and Wizards, he was a little bit more than just unusual. He had a magical scar nestled between his head, a sign of something lurking underneath all the magic. A sign of surviving a curse that had taken countless lives before him. Harry wasn't sure what it had meant until last year, when suddenly he'd gone from a slightly out of ordinary normal kid to an extremely unordinary wizard child.

Still, he'd made friends who accepted him for who he was. Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley were the best part of being a wizard. They had gone to hell and back for him. They had chosen to with him to fight Voldemort, and even though they hadn't really faced Voldemort, they had followed him down a trapdoor regardless and faced all sorts of perils. Harry wasn't sure why they liked him so much, but he wasn't going to question it now. He wasn't going to shy away from his friends.

And yet.

As he sat in Ron's bedroom and listened to Ron describe the dream, a strange, uneasy feeling bottled into his stomach. It was a combination of anger and despair, as Ron spoke about his parents. About their deaths. Scabbers was settled in Harry's lap, the rat seemingly asleep as per usual, except for the strange shiver it gave off during the story of how his father had told Lily Potter to run. And how she'd chosen to sacrifice herself. Voldemort had given her a choice. That detail felt so strange and bizarre he didn't know what to do about it. It made the Love Protection thing Dumbledore said that much more real. Harry felt sick, sitting beside Ron and hearing this story for the first time. He could hear the echoing of laughter, see the green light.

It felt so much clearer now, rattling in his brains, in the hollow of his heart. And there was an endless, unfair envy boiling inside him that Ron knew those things. Ron had seen it all happen. Had seen his father tell Harry a bedtime story before Harry had. His eyes stung, the stinging threatened to overpower him, so he shut them and screwed his hands up into fists and finally, he asked, "Are you sure?"

And Ron simply said, "I swear Harry."

Ron sounded just as broken as Harry felt.

"Why'd you have that as a dream?" asked Harry, still wobbling. He felt like he'd just been rammed by a Bludger while his broom shook underneath him.

And Ron looked at him, still distraught, as he said, "I don't know."

* * *

By mutual, silent agreement, the boys had agreed not to tell anyone yet. Ron didn't want to have his parents fuss, or worse, think he was lying and making up stories. Harry wasn't ready to tell anyone at all. Breakfast was unusually silent, as Mrs. Weasley stared at Ron's dark circles and accused him and Harry of staying up talking far too late into the night. She'd been most upset and refused to allow them to hole up in their room. Another day of de-gnoming it was. Ron took Harry around the Burrow, showing him things like Arthur Weasley's shed, filled with spark plugs and batteries and wires. All sorts of eleckticity things that the man enjoyed more than anything at all. They'd both been rather listless, going through the motions.

Even a game of chess fell flat, as they sat and prodded the pieces to move. If anyone noticed, they just seemed to write the boys off as tired.

The summer continued like that. By day, the boys tried to be cheerful and play Quidditch and Exploding Snap, and trying desperately to ignore the impeding sense of dread as the sun began setting. And every night, Ron would eye his bed warily, falling asleep to the dream of the Potters' dying. And every night, he'd be woken up by Harry and he'd tell the story over and over again. Trying to recall every single detail about the memory.

It wasn't any surprise that Harry started to have nightmares about it too. His dreams seemed like memories, locked so tight in his head, but they grew clearer and clearer through each recitation Ron gave. It was almost as though they were now dreaming together. Mrs. Weasley began looking at them suspiciously afterwards, trying to feed them more at dinner and making sure to drop hot cocoa in their rooms one night. It was the only night either boy slept through, leading Ron to correctly assume that his mother had snuck them some Dreamless Sleep to keep them from staying up all night. It was perhaps the best thing she could have done.

Finally the day to go to Diagon Alley arrived, and both buys bucked up immensely at the thought.

A distraction and Hermione Granger were just what the Healer ordered.

* * *

For her part, Hermione Granger was having a rather lovely summer, if not a little bit lonely. Ron had written to her, in his careless way. He'd spent an entire letter detailing a Quidditch match for her benefit, one he'd listened to over the radio. Hermione was fairly sure that he had meant to send the analysis to Harry, but Harry hadn't been answering his letters and both friends were starting to get more and more worried about him. It wasn't like Harry, after all, to ignore them just like that, especially not after the last year. For a long moment, Hermione had wondered if perhaps Harry didn't consider them friends at all. Perhaps that's why he hadn't written. His apology letter detailing the interception had more than made up for those lingering fears that maybe the boys didn't want her at all.

Still, it would be so good to see them. Hermione did love her parents, but after a year at Hogwarts, she couldn't wait to head back. There was just so much she still had to learn, so many things to study and this year would be the year to start gathering information about the elective classes. She'd need to be in top form, to pick the right courses for her to study. It would be rather impossible to choose, Hermione suspected, and the thought of missing a vital lesson in another class made her cringe. It wasn't impossible to get all twelve OWLs, she knew, she'd heard the stories, and some brave souls even made the perilous attempt to get all twelve NEWTs. Hermione liked to envision herself being one of those students, one of the best.

But more than that, more than just being another student in the grain, Hermione wanted to see her friends.

It had been strange over the summer, to read a book without Harry beside her, quietly attempting his homework or ignoring his homework entirely to daydream about something. She missed his surprising tenacity and his sharp mind, a mind fit for puzzles. Hermione wondered sometimes if Harry knew how clever he was, how inspiring he could be. The boy really was a hero, after all, better than the heroes in the books she used to read. She missed the way he'd light up at getting something right, or how his eyes hungrily studied everything about Hogwarts, sharing the same quiet awe with her, in the realization that they too, were included in this legacy.

Hermione missed Ron, and his big mouth and his ability to drive her mad. It wasn't the same, to start reading and realize Ron wasn't there to prod her about the book and demand she try and summarize it and then be completely uninterested in her summary. It wasn't the same to sit beside her father, quietly watching football in the evenings because she could just hear Ron's confusion over the game and his endless questions. Unlike Harry, he always had questions. And Hermione always liked to answer. Even about things that wouldn't otherwise matter, it was reassuring to have Ron there so she could talk her thoughts through without being ridiculed. His letters, at least, had been regular and reassuring, especially once he'd found Harry and gotten him out of his muggle guardians' reach safely, but there was still a strange, ridiculous tinge of jealousy every time she thought of the boys having fun without her.

Thankfully, they'd be having an adventure together today, and that's why the Granger family was at Gringotts Bank, exchanging their pounds and pences for galleons and knuts. Hermione's eyes were darting from the steps into the crowd, hoping against hope that there would be a flurry of red hair soon, with a strange little black head bobbing along beside them. Instead, she found herself spotting a rather large man, with a wild tangle of curly hair, who stood out among the crowd. Hermione smiled at this, tugging her mum's sleeve and said, "That's Hagrid mum!"

And as she made to wave at Hagrid, two things happened at once. A red-haired gaggle of wizards arrived down the street, and she caught site of the small boy walking alongside Hagrid. Hermione gave a shriek, her tugging becoming more insistent as she yelled, "That's them mum!"

And then she flew from the steps, running to catch her friends in a fierce hug. There was some confusion over the introductions, as Harry muttered that he'd been in Knockturn Alley, which worried Hermione immensely as she knew of the street's fierce reputation. It was in a book she'd read last year, but thankfully, Hagrid had been there to rescue him. As the groups began to split up and start their shopping, Hermione finally managed to get a really good look at her boys. What she saw displeased her.

Both Ron and Harry looked haggard, their eyes outlined by dark circles and a strange edge of fear. They were quiet, not as boisterous, and even as she rattled about meeting Gilderoy Lockhart - a truly remarkable hero - they seemed to just shrug. Ron didn't even have the energy, it seemed, to properly mock or groan about the matter. Instead, he just seemed to give her an air of incredulity before clamming up entirely. Instead of telling her about it, though, Harry went off on his story about Draco Malfoy and his father at Borgin and Burkes. Still, despite it all, they seemed so broken down and weary and Hermione really didn't like that look on them. Especially since they hardly seemed to have anything exciting to tell her about their summer at Ron's house.

Hermione was right worried, by the time they entered Flourish and Blott's.

Gilderoy Lockhart was everything she'd imagined and more, and was only a half-distraction from her friends. Seeing him at Flourish and Blott's brought a blush to her cheeks. He was just so handsome, with his blonde hair coiffed perfectly, his smile wide and dazzling, and the way he addressed a crowd with confidence and charm. Hermione's hair felt too bushy, her teeth to big, and her feet to small as she stumbled into the store, trying to stand up taller to get a better look at the wizard in question. Beside her, Ron rolled his eyes, a sign that he was at least still Ron. This was something she noticed, because even in her desire to see Lockhart, her friends were too important to ignore. Her fervor from the day before, to get an autograph from Lockhart, was broken now. As much as she admired the talented wizard, her friends were far more important. Anyone could tell Harry was annoyed at being dragged up to meet Lockhart, and as things slowly got more chaotic from there, Hermione tugged on Ron's sleeve and pulled him aside. From the corner of her eye, she could see Malfoy, a rather annoying boy in her year, entering with a snobby, aristocratic looking man with a sheet of long blonde hair and a dangerous looking cane, more an accessory than for walking. Hermione ignored them, however, because there was a more pressing matter to address.

"What's going on with you and Harry?" asked Hermione, eying Ron critically in between the shelves of Flourish and Blott's. He looked at her uncomfortably, and then glanced towards where Harry was, as though their best friend would leap into the fray and handle the entire situation. Honestly. Hermione crossed her arms and glowered, demanding an answer with her eyes.

"S'not," began Ron, and Hermione felt devastation rising up inside her. She was being excluded all over again. Hermione knew a thing about exclusion. Lavender and Parvati still didn't like her much, not even after a year of sharing a room together. She'd thought it was different, with Ron and Harry, but now they were leaving her out too! She'd thought it was special, the way they'd solved a big mystery last year and become heroes, and yet, here, she felt nothing but a sudden leap of sadness, clawing at her throat and leaving her devastated.

In a much more shrill, bossy sort of tone, Hermione demanded, "I can see something's wrong, Ronald!"

Ron scowled at her, and then darted back to Hermione. His voice went low, as he whispered, "I've been having these nightmares. Weird ones. About people dying."

Hermione stopped right there. What did that mean? Any anger dissipated into concern, as she studied her friend. Nightmares about people dying? Any questions she could have asked were swallowed as a shelf was knocked over, and she turned to see Arthur Weasley tackling Draco Malfoy's father in the middle of Flourish and Blott's. Ron started to cheer from where they were, as Hagrid waddled into the fray. Harry, Ginny and Malfoy the younger were standing in the middle of the scene, alongside her parents, surprisingly. She'd been avoiding them to interrogate Ron.

"Let's go see my dad clobber Malfoy!" said Ron excitedly, revived all over again and tugging on her arm.

Still, the niggling questions remained in her mind. Dreams about people dying? And what did that mean about Harry?

What sort of nightmares were these?

Her answer came after, as the trio collected together on the streets of Diagon, quietly whispering.

"So you've been having these dreams since Harry arrived?" hissed Hermione, her eyes wide and shocked and only a tad miserable for her fellow classmates and best friends. Nobody else could hear them, of course, as both boys nodded miserably. A part of Hermione wondered if it was just an ordinary nightmare, but the fact that it started with Ron made her worry more. Harry looked between them nervously.

"There was this house elf," began Harry only for Hermione to interrupt him to ask, "What's a house elf?"

Ron stared at her openly, jaw slack as he said, "Blimey, you don't know? But you know everything!"

Hermione was not a tad bit pleased at the assumption, despite the twitch of her lips. Instead, she said, "Well what is it? And what's that got to do with anything?"

"House elves are like wizard servants," said Ron slowly, "Only the really rich old pureblood folks have them. Like the Malfoys. Mum would love to have one to help around the house but we can't af-

He cut himself off, going a bit pink at the statement but Hermione nodded, slowly now and gave Ron an out, as she turned to Harry with an equally demanding expression for him to continue his recitation. Her eyes grew wider and wider as Harry talked about the house elf's strange warning and the way it had intercepted their letters. It was all a rather bit eerie, actually. She didn't like to believe in things like predictions and horoscopes, they were a bit woolly, but things like a house elf's ominous warning coupled with the dreams.

"Could they be related?" asked Hermione, just a tad doubtful. "And why would it target Ron too? It seems a bit too cruel for a joke, even from Malfoy. We'll have to check the Hogwarts Library for books on house elves, to see if that's possible."

And her mind was already whirring, as Mrs. Weasley came towards them and cut her off. Now she was thinking too much about the possibilities of house elves, dreams and memories.

* * *

The night before the Hogwarts Express took off, Ron went to bed, excited at last at the possibility of escaping to Hogwarts where Hermione would find the answer to this problem in the Hogwarts Library. He was so excited he was sure he wouldn't fall asleep, and yet when he did, instead of the expected dream, what he saw was a bit different.

 _He was falling into the sunlight. There was a playground, Ron realized, and for the first time, he frowned. In the previous dreams, they'd felt too real, like memories. He was living those dreams. This, however, was different. It felt like he was an impartial observer. So Ron straightened up and looked around at what seemed like a rather deserted playground. Two girls were swinging on chair contraptions, like the tire his dad had once hung up, but cleaner, lighter, wrapped on metal poles._

 _Beside Ron, he started to see a young boy, crouched in the bushes watching the girls with a strange hunger. Not the girls, Ron realized absently, just the red-headed girl. He felt a bit fond of her already, and also a bit wary. She wasn't a Weasley, and the only other redheaded girl he knew was Lily Potter. The boy, in contrast, was skinny with greasy dark hair, and clothes that seemed too big for him and also too small, in jeans that left too much ankle - something Ron immediately knew was likely a hand-me down, he had experience with those - and an overlarge coat with a strange smock-like shirt that reminded him of something an uncle of his used to wear._

 _"Lily don't do it!" shrieked the blonde girl on the playground. Ron watched, mesmerized, as the little girl flew into the air from the swing, holding herself up for a seconds and Ron marvelled at that. He'd never seen accidental magic like that before. And then the girl landed, giggling. He watched as she showed her sister a flower. Ron felt odd, as he watched the entire exchange of the flower, the girl giggling as she made the tulip lips open and close, as the blonde girl - Tuney - shrieked in disapproval, before asking how to do it herself._

 _She's jealous, thought Ron with a jolt. He knew that expression too, had worn it plenty of times on his own. And then the boy jumped out and called Lily a witch and Ron knew exactly what was going on now. Or at least, who this was going on with. Though he still had no idea who the boy was._

This time, when Ron woke up, he couldn't help but feel a little bad for the boy in his dream, who had watched a little girl run away with her sister at the accusation of being called a witch.

* * *

 **OKAY SO WE MOVED ON A BIT.**

 **This chapter was so hard to write because it's mostly setting the scene kind of boring. SORRY ABOUT THAT. And then it got long. Which not sorry. BUT WE'RE GOING SOMEWHERE. Reviews were so great to read! Thank you!**

 **And I'm excited to do this story some more justice. Since I only posted a few days ago I really don't have much to say XD But there you have it! Chapter Two is up and hopefully Chapter Three does justice!**


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